Miracles
by Flaignhan
Summary: For the first time in a long time, things are looking up. [Companion piece to Schoolgirl Crush]


**A/N: **Merry Christmas folks. Hope you're all having a lovely day. If you don't celebrate it, hope you're having a lovely day all the same. Here's a companion piece to Schoolgirl Crush for you to enjoy.

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><p><strong>Miracles<strong>

**by Flaignhan**

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><p>He's in a foul mood when she arrives, but she doesn't let it deter her. Apparently he's not welcome at home this Christmas, so he won't be spending the festive season with his family. As for her, well, she can't bear the thought of being alone for her first Christmas without her dad. No matter how sour Sherlock is, he will still be preferable to the crushing loneliness that comes with experiencing certain milestones without her dad; first morning, first lecture, first meal - in the beginning it had been tiny things, things that in life, he wouldn't have been present for anyway. They had all seemed so huge at the time. A few months down the line, however, the milestones have become fewer, reserved only for large events - her first Christmas without him, and, in a couple of months, her first birthday without him will come too.<p>

She's not sure she will ever be prepared.

But, she has gotten to the point where she will try to make the most of things, where she will drag her weary heart along with her, day after day, forcing out smiles until they start to feel natural. She cannot, admittedly, bring herself to believe that there will be many smiles over the next few days, but even his begrudging company is better than the bleakness of an empty house.

She turns the Christmas tree lights on, and is quite sure that they haven't twinkled since she last visited. He must have switched them off at some point, which is a miracle in itself, because it means he was somewhere that wasn't his bed, the kitchen, or the bathroom. She puts his presents under the tree, along with the small collection of gifts that her friends had given her, all of them having gone to the extra effort of missing out on a club night just so they could afford to give Molly something to open on Christmas morning.

The lump in her throat swells as she arranges them neatly under the tree, the kisses on the tags causing her eyes to prickle with silly, needless tears. Stacey's gift is the most brightly wrapped of all, and is covered with shiny foil bows, curls of ribbon, and wrinkled strips of sellotape.

She presses her shaking hands against her face, eyes closed, and she breathes deeply and steadily. She's not entirely able to process reality, that she'll be spending Christmas with a junkie in a flat that she's quite certain needs to be decontaminated by professionals. It is a dingy contrast to her previous years, of turkey dinner on the kitchen table with her dad, Christmas tree lights twinkling merrily as they settle down in front of the telly for an evening of chocolates and TV specials.

"Have you eaten?" she says, standing and turning to face Sherlock.

He shakes his head, his face pale and sweaty, eye sockets sporting dark circles, then pulls his dressing gown more tightly around himself, and disappears into his bedroom without another word. She thinks that perhaps she ought to leave him be, that maybe with some sleep, he might perk up a bit. She smiles grimly to herself at the idea of him 'perking up'. The most she can reasonably hope for is that he stops eyeing her with distaste every time he's in the same room as her, or that he'll bite his tongue the next time a handful of venomous words dances on the tip of it. She's not expecting him to start singing _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_, while making a fresh batch of gingerbread men. She's not asking for a miracle.

She decides to work on the assumption that he won't be eating this evening, and so she calls the _Moon Lee_, orders a set meal for one, and then settles herself on the sofa, flicking through the TV channels, until she comes to rest on _It's a Wonderful Life_, and forces herself to keep her emotions in check during the finale. Shortly after it finishes, the doorbell rings, and Molly pushes herself up from the sofa, her stomach rumbling quietly as the thought of hot food lifts her heavy heart just a little.

Before she can reach the hallway, Sherlock has bounded out of his bedroom and barged past her in his effort to reach the door first. Her shoulder collides with the door jamb, and she scowls, rubbing it to try and ease the pain. Ahead of her, Sherlock opens the door, his hunched shoulders dropping as soon as he sees the delivery boy with his carrier bag of takeaway cartons.

He turns back to Molly, his eyebrows set in a frown. "What's this?" he demands haughtily.

"Dinner," Molly replies, squeezing past him to take the carrier bag from the delivery boy before she pulls a ten pound note from the pocket of her jeans. The boy fumbles for the correct change and gives that to Molly, before wishing her a merry Christmas and hurrying back to his bike.

Sherlock stalks off down the hallway, leaving Molly to close the front door.

"D'you want some?" she calls after him, but the only response she receives is the slamming of the bathroom door. She starts to wonder if she might actually have been better going home and spending Christmas alone, but then the thought of that empty house leaves her feeling even worse, and she pushes the idea from her mind.

It's not long before she's sitting in front of the telly again, a plate full of steaming noodles and sweet and sour chicken warming her far more thoroughly than the ancient clanking radiators in Sherlock's flat could ever achieve.

After a while, she hears the shower come on, and she considers it a grand improvement that he's actually going to wash himself in preparation for Christmas day. When he reappears shortly after, however, he doesn't look very good at all, and Molly places her half eaten plate of food on the coffee table, her brow creased in concern.

"What's the matter?" she asks, getting to her feet and heading towards him.

"Nothing," he replies through gritted teeth as he leans away from her. She hasn't left him with anywhere to go though; he's stuck in the corner, and she won't step aside until she gets to the bottom of things. She's never seen him like this before. She's never seen him look so dreadful after a shower and a set of clean clothes. Normally it's enough to fool a stranger that he's just a little under the weather, but not even the most naive, optimistic, blissfully ignorant stranger would be fooled by his appearance now.

She touches his face gently, and he flinches at the contact, his clammy skin dampening her fingertips.

"Tell me," she whispers, her eyes following his as he tries his best to avoid meeting her gaze.

"Move out of the way," he replies.

She doesn't.

"Tell me," she says, her hand finding his wrist and wrapping her fingers around it, counting the erratic thumps of his pulse. "What have you taken?"

"_Nothing_," he snaps. "That's the _point_."

Molly frowns, and waits for him to elaborate, though she is greeted with a number of impatient, irritable huffs before he explains himself.

"I thought I would clean up for Christmas," he says stiffly. "So I wouldn't be passed out for the entire day."

Molly's heart swells in her chest, and her throat tightens uncomfortably, eyelids prickling. He's still avoiding her eye, and apparently thinks that the more he looks away, the sooner she'll leave him be.

He is very much mistaken.

The lump in her throat grows inordinately large, and she looks down at her feet, struggling for the right thing to say. He's on the biggest comedown of his life, and if she's not careful with her words, if she doesn't say exactly the right thing, then there's every chance that he'll snap and throw all his efforts away with a single hit.

The words don't come though, and so she looks up at him, her eyes lingering at his throat as he swallows hard, his eyes fixed on the television, which is running through brightly coloured adverts enticing people to take advantage of their sales as soon as Boxing Day rolls around. She shakes her head, then wraps her arms around his waist, pulling him close to her, her head resting against his chest. Initially he stiffens, his bony shoulders pulled back, chest puffed out, arms as rigid as two long lengths of steel. But, after a moment, whether due to tiredness or a crumbling of his resolve, his arms find their way around her, his chin resting atop her head as he lets out a long, slow breath.

He's trembling. She hadn't noticed it before she touched him, but he is constantly, minutely, quivering, though his fingers cannot keep from more obvious shaking as he holds her. He grips her jumper tightly, but this only intensifies his problems, and she places her hands on top of his, holding them gently, cutting his tremors short.

"Come and have some food," she says quietly. "Just a little."

He doesn't say anything, but nor does he put up a fight when she guides him towards the sofa. They sit down, and she hands him the last of her noodles and chicken. He presses his lips hard together as he looks down at it, but Molly will not relent. He's so skeletal, and she knows that even if he can't keep _much_ food down, some will be better than none, and so she stares at him, ignoring the blaring of the television, until he lifts the fork shakily to his mouth, and slowly chews a small mouthful of noodles, before forcing them down. He lowers the plate to his lap and takes a few steadying breaths, closing his eyes as his stomach begins to make unpleasant gurgling noises. Molly half wonders if she ought to fetch a bucket, but she almost feels as if that would be giving in, that it would turn a possibility into an inevitability.

So she waits, and she watches, and eventually, he raises the fork to his mouth again.

He doesn't finish the food, but he gives it a good attempt, and she hasn't seen him attempt anything for years. His good will, when accompanied by his lack of fight against her, means that he doesn't even argue when she shifts closer to him on the sofa, wrapping her arms around him, while neither of them pay much attention to the television.

When midnight eventually comes, he wearily gets to his feet, and he and Molly head to the bedroom, settling themselves under the duvet, trying to block out the sounds of the alcoholic upstairs, stumbling around his flat and swearing at inanimate objects.

"Picturesque Christmas, isn't it?" Sherlock mumbles, his voice soft with tiredness.

"Could be worse," Molly says, blankly. "He could have brought someone back with him."

"Mmm," Sherlock replies, shifting on the mattress.

Barely five minutes pass before Molly hears a cab pull up outside, the orange glow of its sign seeping through the thin linen curtains pulled hastily shut across the window. Then, the upstairs doorbell rings, and Molly rolls over, her eyes meeting Sherlock's. They both hold their breath as heavy footsteps plod across the floor above. The door creaks open, and there is a cacophony of uneven footsteps on the stairs, before they hear the first loud, shrill giggle.

Sherlock lifts his head, pulls the pillow out from underneath it, then slings it over both their heads, his arm resting across it, pressing it down against their ears.

"It still could be worse," Molly says reasonably.

"Yes, well, just keep any ideas to yourself, won't you? Let's not tempt fate."

It's the longest thing he's said to her in a long long time, and, despite everything, despite his pale, skeletal appearance, despite the creaking of bedsprings upstairs, and the stale smell of Sherlock's bedroom, she falls asleep smiling, for the first time in months.

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><p>He throws up before they open their gifts, and Molly sits by the tree, her legs crossed as he wretches in the bathroom, the door locked, his determination to keep her from helping him both ridiculous and troubling. Eventually he reappears, looking gaunter than ever, and they quietly unwrap presents, though his gift to her is his sobriety, so there is no package from him underneath the tree. She doesn't mind, however. She has been incredibly fortunate with gifts from her friends, which include a plethora of gorgeous smelling bath bombs, a couple of brightly patterned cardigans, some excellent choices in jewellery and, naturally, more chocolate than she could hope to eat in a month.<p>

Between that and Sherlock's lack of drug use, she feels like the luckiest girl in the world.

She skips breakfast, because Sherlock's clearly not up for it, and she can munch on chocolates throughout the morning. She gets cracking on the dinner, peeling sprouts, potatoes and carrots, making up a sauce for the cauliflower cheese, and prepping the turkey crown ahead of her sticking it in the oven. It's a small one, after all, there's only two of them, and really, only one of them that's eating, but she wants to do it properly nonetheless. She wants to pretend this is a normal Christmas.

While Sherlock sits on the sofa, wrapped in blanket, staring at the television while _The Great Escape_ is on, Molly clears the small table, then does her best to lay it, making do with what's in Sherlock's flat: mismatched cutlery, some old placemats from several tenants ago that she discovered under the sink, a couple of glasses which she thinks were most probably pocketed when walking past the tables outside a pub (if the logos are anything to go by), and finally, her own addition of some Christmas crackers, which she has brought from home, unwilling to waste them.

Around one o'clock, they hear the clonking of dense platform heels above them, and look up in unison as an argument breaks out. Sherlock groans and slumps sideways on the sofa, covering his head with the nearest cushion. Molly heads into the kitchen, checking on all the food that is all just as fine as it was five minutes before. She waits in there, leaning against the counter until, with a slam of the front door, the noise fades into the occasional grumble and the kicking of a doorframe.

"Well at least we won't have to put up with them tonight," Molly says brightly, joining Sherlock on the sofa.

"Don't jinx it," he groans, stretching his legs across her lap and making himself comfortable.

"I thought you didn't believe in jinxing, or any of that superstitious nonsense."

"I don't," he says tartly, raising his head from underneath the cushion, his hair tousled and sticking up in odd directions. "But I make an exception for _you_."

"Charming," Molly says, reaching forward to grab her tea from the coffee table, before settling down to watch the last half an hour of the film, all the while keeping one eye on the oven through the doorway to the kitchen.

As the credits start to roll, the doorbell rings, and Sherlock scrambles to his feet, nearly kicking Molly's tea clean out of her hand. She has no idea what could be so important that it requires such haste - surely anyone who's bothered to visit on Christmas Day would wait ten seconds for him to answer the door? He slams the living room door behind him, then she hears the front door open after a few seconds. She turns the sound down on the television, then strains her ears to try and hear the conversation. Though Sherlock is keeping his voice low, she hears two distinct words, forced out through gritted teeth.

"_Go away_."

She then hears a thud, followed by a shudder of the front door, as though someone has just jammed their foot in the gap to stop him from shutting them out.

"Sherlock if you just - "

It's a woman's voice, which is all the more confusing, and then she hears her own name thrown into things.

"Molly's here," he snarls. "Now _leave_."

"Well you can always - "

"_Leave_," he says again, and then there is a small disturbance, culminating in Sherlock forcing the front door shut. He reappears in the lounge moments later, his face drawn, his ribcage heaving with laboured breaths.

"What was that about?" Molly asks, not bothering to disguise her eavesdropping.

"It's nothing that concerns you," Sherlock says haughtily, collapsing onto the sofa and pulling his blanket over him.

"Well it _does_ concern me," Molly tells him. "Are you in trouble?"

"_No_," Sherlock snaps, as though the very idea is ludicrous and she's insane for even considering it.

"Because you'd tell me if you were, wouldn't you?" she says forcibly, fixing him with a steely glare. "You'd tell me if you were in trouble, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock stares at her for a moment, and it is apparent that her severity on the matter has taken him by surprise.

"Yes," he says after a moment, his voice softer now. "Yes, I would."

She believes him, this time, and maybe it's because his grand gesture of sobriety makes everything more sincere, or maybe because of his tone of voice, but her nerves settle, that unpleasant tingling just under the surface of her skin petering out. Realising she won't get anymore out of him, she goes to check on the food, and busies herself in the kitchen until it's time to serve.

She carves the turkey herself, battling with the blunt serrated knife in Sherlock's cutlery drawer until she gets a good few slices cleaved away from the breast. She piles Sherlock's plate high with vegetables, roast potatoes, stuffing, and turkey, not because she thinks for one second that he'll eat it all, but she reasons that the more he has on his plate, the more effort he'll make, rather than giving up before he's even made a dent in it.

When she sets the dinners down on the placemats, he comes to take a seat, far more obediently than she had expected. He brings his blanket with him, draping it around his shoulders like a shawl, his pale hands reaching through the edges to take his knife and fork.

"Crackers first!" Molly tells him, picking up her bright red cracker and offering one end to him.

He rolls his eyes, but complies, giving it a sharp tug. The crack sounds loudly in the living room, and from Molly's larger half falls a compact metal corkscrew, a purple paper hat, and a slip of paper with a lame joke written across it.

"What d'you call a - "

"Nope," Sherlock says, cutting her off and holding out his cracker to her. "We're not doing jokes."

She lets him off. It had, admittedly, been rather optimistic to expect him to join in fully, after all. She tugs the cracker, and he manages to keep a hold of the larger portion, though she suspects that might have something to do with his thumb being securely pressed over its weakest point. She doesn't say anything, however, and he brushes his paper hat and joke away, before picking up the small black piece of folded leather, shaped like a rounded triangle.

"What is it?" she asks, frowning at his prize.

Sherlock pops one index finger between the fold of leather, and pushes out a round lens from the other side. Through it, Molly can see a rather warped version of the world, but Sherlock immediately uses it to inspect his dinner.

Molly frowns. "Very funny," she says, and after a moment, he flips the magnifying glass back into its protective cover and slips it into his pocket.

Dinner seems to last forever, with Molly flagging after tackling her veg and her turkey, and Sherlock picking at little bits here and there. She keeps going however, in the hope that it will spur him on, despite the fact that she feels as though her stomach is about to split open.

When they finish, Molly can't even contemplate the idea of dessert, and so she leaves that for much much later, choosing instead to stake some claim over Sherlock's blanket, slumped against him while they watch _Wallace and Gromit_ on the telly, Molly occasionally letting out a small titter, while Sherlock stares at the screen boredly. She expects him to complain, but he doesn't, and perhaps it is another of his gifts to her - compliance, good will (as much as he can muster at any rate), and his sobriety.

Their Christmas isn't the finest either of them have ever had, nor is it remotely ordinary. But after the time she's had this past year, Molly can't help but feel like they've reached a turning point, that next Christmas might be even better, and that every Christmas will get substantially better, year on year.

For the first time in a long time, things are looking up.

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><p>When she wakes on Boxing Day morning, Sherlock is comatose. His pulse is fainter than usual, but steady, under her anxiously searching fingertips, and after she has rolled him onto his side, she sinks back into her pillows, her heart shrivelling in her chest. There had been that tiny little bit of her that had hoped for more, that had hoped that he might take each day as it came, rather than counting down the hours until his self imposed obligation was fulfilled.<p>

It seems that miracles can and do happen, especially at Christmas, but far more common than miracles are rash acts of placation, dressed up to look like they could only occur when the brightest star in the sky shines boldly overhead. She still believes in miracles, he hasn't ground her down that much yet, but whether she still believes that Sherlock Holmes is capable of them is another matter entirely. While his attempt was meaningful at the time, the whole experience has left a rather sour taste in her mouth, now that he's high as a kite and slipping in out and out of consciousness.

Her phone bleeps loudly on the bedside cabinet, the pale green screen lighting up, thick dark, pixellated letters informing her that Stacey is awake, and that if Molly wants breakfast (followed by some leftover Christmas pudding) then she ought to get her skates on.

Molly doesn't take one glance at Sherlock before she makes her decision, and a quarter of an hour later she is heading towards the main road, her coat buttoned right up to her throat to keep the chilly wind at bay. Her heart feels the tiniest bit fuller. Miracles can happen, not in the form of friends who continually grind you down and try to make up for it with empty gestures once a year, but in the form of friends who invite you into their homes with impeccable timing and an offer of bacon and egg.

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><p><strong>The End.<strong>


End file.
